Trombone Trust
by sandy J-D
Summary: Hardcastle has trust issues. McCormick worries that he will let the Judge down.


Trombone Trust

By Sandra J D

"Okay I'm going to trust you with this," Hardcastle growled as he reluctantly opened the battered case that held his revered trombone. "But I'd better not find so much as a scratch on it, and I'll send you back up if you dent the slide!" Hardcastle leaned forward, strong jaw jutting forward as he stared intently at McCormick, checking to see if he was feeling mirth or if this whole request was a silly joke.

But McCormick simply continued to lean into the case and then deliberately rose up to meet the Judge's hard glare. He was aware of a warning finger extended his way, waving, more like quivering the younger man thought to himself.

"Look, you have to trust me sometime, and now is as good as any," McCormick cajoled, his hands upturned as he met the Judge's eyes.

"Yeah, well you have to _earn _trust," the judge growled. "And you haven't been too good at that lately, or even in the past if you must know!"

"What?" Mark reared back, his jaw dropping in disbelief.

"You heard me…"

"Come on! I don't do things without a good reason. You _know_ me Judge!" McCormick protested.

"Yeah, and I know you nap during chore time, raid the fridge when I go to bed, and I found the wine bottle you took from the basement…empty I might add!"

"But Judge! Marnie came over, and you know I don't get THAT many female visitors…I had to serve something…" McCormick started as a protest, but ended almost pleadingly.

"You could have served tea, or coffee!" Hardcastle snapped back.

"Yeah I could have," McCormick ran a hand through his curls with a shrug. "But Judge, even you were young once and wanted to impress a girl. And remember, I offered to pay you back but you wouldn't accept it!"

"That bottle of wine would have been a month of your salary!" Hardcastle snapped, casting a nervous glance at the gleaming brass trombone shining from the blue velvet lining of its well worn case. Was the case more trustworthy than McCormick?

"I told you I was sorry," McCormick tried to placate. "Maybe you could make a system. You could put the cheap wines in one spot of the cellar and the more expensive ones in another," Mark offered as the Judge snapped his eyes back up.

"They're all expensive. I don't drink cheap wine!"

"You know Judge, most of the girls who date me wouldn't know the difference between Mogen David and a Chateau Lafitte!" Mark responded a bit too loud, his frustration bubbling to the surface.

Mark threw up his hands and turned around, letting his back face his stubborn mentor. He scrubbed a hand restlessly across his face. He knew getting the trombone away from his friend would be hard, and he hadn't expected the Judge not to put up a fight. He needed to try a different tactic though. He turned back to face the judge, hands raised as if he was being arrested.

"Okay. Guilty as charged, but I plead nolo contendre. And I promise to ask before taking next time."

It was the Judge's turn to grumble. "You know how important my trombone is to me. It's old, a Vega and almost a hundred years old. Made out of real brass and with a sound that today's cheap imitations can't match." He rubbed his mouth, casting his glance between the soft sheen of the trombone and Mark's sincere eyes. "And I wish you'd tell me what you need it for."

"I can't Judge. You'll have to trust me on that."

Mark cradled the ancient case in his arms as he trudged up the street, resisting the urge to cut through an ally. Sure it looked like he was a crazy man, carrying the beat up trombone case, with its leather outer covering peeling away from the wood, which had lost too many of the small finish nails. And it wasn't just the peeling and flapping leather, the wood was lifting in areas, separating and raising bubbles. He cradled the beloved trombone case like a baby and wondered how the Judge could keep an instrument as valuable as an ancient Vega in such a beat up repository. Everything had its story, he thought. And he knew he would never live it down if anything happened to the trombone case while it was in his custody; let alone what it would do to his standing in the Judges eyes. He thought about the trombone, wrapped in towels and stashed beneath his bed and wondered if the judge would have a heart attack if he found it there, virtually unprotected.

Mark made a sharp turn into a small shop, a hole in the wall. It was no more than a shabby door in an equally shabby shop but he knew the man inside. They'd both been inside at one time. And while Mark's forte was cars, Bro's was custom repair.

"Hello!" Mark called loudly as the door slammed behind him, sending a small eddy of dust swirling. He clutched the trombone case closer to his chest, having second thoughts. He stood in the silence and let his gaze travel around the room. The shop was filled with shelves of cases and of wooden boxes in all sizes, of cabinet doors, of antique tables with missing legs. And behind the counter were finished projects. Music boxes gleamed with aged patina, restored and varnished to a high sheen. Frames hung with all corners at perfect right angles, chips and scratches buffed away. All of the beloved objects behind the desk must have been brought in looking shabby or ruined their ancient glory waiting to be reclaimed. And now they radiated restored beauty.

"Bro!" Mark called out again, staring around the room in fascination and awe.

He was rewarded by the creak of an inside door and a soft step that moved easily across the rough board floor without a creak of the dry hard wood. A small man, slim framed and lithe with sparkling eyes and graying dreadlocks danced on silent feet to the counter. He flung up a hinged area of counter and moved forward, immediately recognizing the curly haired customer.

"Skid baby," he grinned, the words coming out in rhythmic patter like the music of the streets. "Long time…well long enough. How you doing?" He reached out not for a hand but for a more welcoming hug and pulled Mark closer, clapping a hand on his back and bumping shoulders with him.

Mark tried to hug him back but simply hugged the trombone case awkwardly. He tried to free an arm without jeopardizing the case, but in his head he could hear the judge admonishing "be careful!" and "I'm trusting you to not let ANYTHING happen to my trombone" and Mark inferred this to extend to the case as well. Consequently, he simply leaned into Bro's embrace and stood tall when he was released.

"So what brings you here?" Bro asked beaming at Mark. "You been out what...2 years?"

"Bout that," Mark answered with a nod of his head. "How are you doing?"

Bro shook his head, dreads quivering. "Never spected I'd see you again. But glad I did. Thought about you many times. Yes sir. In the skanky death of prison you were a breath of spring. Umm hmm!" He nodded and stared assessingly across at McCormick. "You weren't a shanker and you didn't choose sides. Hell man, you didn't judge."

"No sense in that," McCormick grinned. I'd have to judge myself then. I heard you were doing great, that you'd found your niche." He let his eyes travel around the room. "And it sure seems you have."

"Always was good with my hands!" Bro laughed and McCormick smiled at the former safecracker. "Thought maybe I'd try putting stuff back together for a change." He nodded around proudly. "And you can see I must be okay at it. Got plenty of business."

"Sure do," McCormick commented, feeling his stomach tighten at the prospect of a lengthy stay for the Judge's trombone case. He shifted nervously.

"So what'd you bring me?" Bro asked staring with bright eyes at McCormick's dilapidated case?

"Well it's not mine," McCormick hesitated then went into full salesman mode. "It's my friend's. See, his most prized possession is his old trombone. And boy I mean old, maybe 70 or 100 years old and that's not in bad shape. He keeps it polished you know, buffs it and plays it a lot. Sometimes too much."

Bro stood silently, an eyebrow raised.

"Anyway, this is the case, and as you can see it's not in nearly as great shape as the trombone is, and why should it be, I mean who polishes a case? And it's spent all it's time protecting the valuable instrument inside it. Honestly Bro, its Judge Hardcastles birthday coming up. He's important. I mean, he believed in me and took me in and has been trying to be role model, and I respect that." McCormick sighed, feeling uncomfortable.

Bro lifted his hands. "I understand. Don't even ask. Leave the case and I'll make it as good as new."

"I feel bad asking, but can you keep as much of the original materiel as possible, I mean, this is a guy who doesn't do change well."

"Skid, you got me cigarettes in the joint whenever I asked you. You talked the skinheads out of targeting me and you got me a cushy job in the infirmary."

"Yeah well Nurse Sylvie was sweet on me. And remember, you talked to the dreds gang and got them to ignore me, so I figure we're even," McCormick nodded.

Bro reached for the case. "Not yet. I'd never have made it out of the joint without you." He nodded. "I'll make this priority, gratis."

"I owe you."

"No," Bro shook his head. "You would have made your way in the joint one way or the other. You have a silver tongue. But I'm a simple guy whose only gift is being handy. Give me the case. The repair's on me"

McCormick relinquished it, still queasy about letting the Judges' personal possession out of his grasp. Bro had a great reputation on the outside, but on the inside he'd had few friends. Still, he never did McCormick wrong. He let his arms fall to his side as he watched Bro carefully take the battered case like a broken child cradled in his arms.

McCormick paced in his room in the gatehouse. It had only been 4 days and the Judge hadn't said anything yet. He was supposed to pick up the case tomorrow. He paced in the room, stopping once to check the trombone carefully cradled in towels and blankets beneath his bed, still safe and unharmed. Tomorrow he was supposed to retrieve the trombone case. And the next day was the judge's birthday. Bro had been no different than he's been in prison, alert and aware, open to the people he trusted. McCormick could only hope that everything had gone well.

The Judge sat like a condemned man in an electric chair. His feet were flat on the floor and back rigidly straight. He tried to look like he was enjoying his surprise party, but he'd honestly had plans to simply spend the day alone, maybe visit his wife and son's grave. A surprise party was just like something she would have planned. But she would have thought bigger he realized, with balloons everywhere and bouquets of flowers and streamers of colorful paper. She would have been dancing and singing, twirling around the rooms in delight looking beautiful with her white dress lifting and falling like water over rapids as family and friends mingled, enjoying appetizers. A huge cake would have graced the table set with a linen tablecloth and real silver servers, surrounded by champagne flutes and the tinkling of laughter would be mingling with the soft music in the background. And his son would be mingling, smiling and nodding to his father's friends, wearing a charcoal suit and making his father prouder every year.

But his son wasn't here or his wife either and he realized with a start that that was the exact reason he was feeling so grouchy. McCormick had arranged the surprise party and done so with a man's touch. A paper tablecloth decorated the coffee table in the gatehouse. There were cans of peanuts and bowls of chips and take out Chinese food containers clustered as close to the folding chairs and regular furniture as possible. The party was all men; thankfully McCormick hadn't hired a stripper, but probably only because he didn't have enough money. There were guys from the force, the members of his brass band, a few retired buddies, fellow cops and judges. All in all it was a blue collar gathering, loud and boisterous. McCormick had been playing a mix of Aerosmith, Blue Oyster Cult and Journey until the noise that young people called music had been simply too much and the Judge yelled that he wanted the music off. McCormick complied with a raised eyebrow and a frown as the room quieted briefly.

And the Judge cast his eyes down briefly, aware that he was letting the past hamper the future. That he had let not having control of the situation take him back to not a happier time, because certainly his friends made him happy, but one where he was younger, where a birthday pointed towards another dream to attain and his family was determined by blood.

He let his shoulders relax a bit and his spine fall back to the slight stoop it normally had. He took a deep breath and returned to the present, where his family was McCormick and a few close friends. He allowed himself to smile.

"Thanks for the party."

McCormick nodded. "We have some gifts for you."

"The Judge nodded with a half grin. "Bring 'em on."

The table sported a lopsided birthday cake, obviously baked at home, and probably by McCormick. Hardcastle felt his heart warmed, knowing that his friend, his family, had done this act so simple for a homemaker, but not for an ex-race car driver…ex-con…gardener.

McCormick pushed the cake to the side and piled on the gifts, small boxes and envelopes wrapped in brightly colored paper. The Judge opened each one with thanks and a smile and a personal comment to the giver.

Finally the table contained only a cake.

McCormick had disappeared, reappeared with the trombone case in his arms. But this time it looked like new. The loose wood was secured tightly, the leather was reglued and in the spots where the leather had been missing there was no gaps, no difference. Yet the leather seemed as old as Hardcastle always remembered.

"Happy Birthday," McCormick grinned, handing the case to the Judge.

Hardcastle took the case, cradling it, taking in a deep breath as he saw it renewed. He let his fingers slide along the soft leather, felt but didn't see the barely different texture between the old and the restored. He reached for the clasps and released them, hearing the familiar click and automatically lifted the lid. His trombone had been polished. It lay in the blue velvet case lining, nestled softly and protectively. When he'd given the trombone to McCormick, under duress, it had been held in a solid, though ratty case. Sure some of the nails had come loose, and the leather was falling apart in curtains. And the velvet lining was faded and ratty. But now…

"Mark," he rasped, then caught himself. "McCormick. You got me good!" He stared at the gleaming instrument, his wonder reflected in the polished brass. He closed the case, carefully latching it and settling it on the carpet out of harms way. He stood, facing his friend, the man who was more like a son to him every day. He wanted to wrap his hands around him but being in the room of friends stopped him. Instead he stepped close and slung one arm around the younger man, pulling him close. He felt McCormick hesitate.

"Thank you," he spoke softly. He finally hugged the younger man and felt the uncertain pat on his own back. The two separated.

"I trusted you and you didn't let me down," Hardcastle spoke gruffly. "And I want everyone in the room to know that I TRUSTED you." He nodded simply both at the others and at McCormick and sat down.

"Aw thanks," McCormick answered, his eyes registering a mix of confusion and pride.

"Don't forget it! I might never say that again!" the judge growled. "Now, let's eat some cake."

THE END


End file.
